


whilst the candles burn

by clowncartardis



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Banter, Cooking, Cuddling, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hanukkah, Interfaith Couple, Slice of Life, candle lighting, gluten free yaz, jewish!13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowncartardis/pseuds/clowncartardis
Summary: “Is this because you hate potatoes?” asks Yaz, brushing Eli’s tangles away from her face before she runs out of oxygen.“This is because I hate potatoes,” Eli admits. “I used to like potatoes, and then I—”“Ate one every day in undergrad.”“Microwaved.”“No seasonings.”“Just a potato.”---------a fluffy lil thasmin hanukkah fic. human au.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	whilst the candles burn

**Author's Note:**

> endless thanks to strangesmallbard, maxamillions and wretcheddyke for their help

“I’m here!” Yaz calls out, balancing a box of shrink-wrapped doughnuts in one hand and her mum’s food processor on her hip as she lets herself into Eli’s flat. 

Despite Eli’s insistence it’s larger than it looks, her new flat is roughly the size of a postage stamp. But Yaz can’t argue the virtues of _flatmate free_. 

The entryway smells like fairy liquid and fresh air—despite the temperature outside, Eli must have had the window open for a bit earlier whilst she cleaned. Now, she is perched on the kitchen counter, scrubbing it down, her damp hair already in cowlicks because she showered and forgot to brush it. 

“Hey, you,” says Yaz, louder this time. Eli startles and nearly falls off the counter, righting herself with a sheepish smile. She flings the sponge into the sink and bounces off to pull Yaz into a hug. 

“Wait, wait!” Yaz thrusts the food processor at her, which Eli takes with an exaggerated exhale. She sets it on the counter, then takes the box of doughnuts. 

“Oi, what’s this?” Eli squints at the label under the cling film. 

“Doughnuts,” replies Yaz. “Dad wanted me to bring ‘em. Said it’s from the _best_ place in Sheffield.”

“But you can’t eat doughnuts.”

“I know, s’why they're wrapped.”

“But why did he—”

“He’s been reading about Hanukkah for days, hopin’ you’d invite him.”

“There’s no room!” Eli gestures to the living room, which barely fits her sofa and storage trunk which doubles as her coffee table. The flat is so small there’s hardly room between the arm of the sofa and the edge of the kitchen counter to squeeze past on the way to the bedroom. In fairness, the wine-coloured sofa _is_ overstuffed and has to vie for room with several bookcases that are somehow always full to bursting no matter how many books Eli begrudgingly agrees to donate. 

Eli seems to take empty space as a personal affront. 

“I’ve told him,” Yaz laughs. “He just likes to be included. And for you to feel welcomed.”

Eli tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Her smile is shy but pleased. It had bothered Yaz at first, how much Eli wanted to be involved with her family, but she understands now. Eli also likes to feel included, especially after her own family had all but forgotten about her. As the youngest of six, she was lost in the shuffle of her parents’ divorce and subsequent remarriages, and her older brothers’ commitments to their own wives. Yaz’s family’s wholehearted embrace of Eli means _everything_ to her. 

And to Yaz, as well. 

As recently as a year ago, Yaz had never imagined a future for herself where she had a partner whose presence was demanded—if not assumed—at family events, and her absence was felt. The Khans adore Eli, and Eli adores them. It’s a welcome relief, after a series of terse relationships. 

“Thank him for me, will ya? Even if I have to eat them all by myself. Out in the hallway, too, since I just finished deep-cleaning the kitchen so we can cook together. S’pose I should just text, yeah? I can do that now. Lemme just… Where _is_ my phone?” Eli pats her sweatpants pockets and frowns. “Coulda sworn it were in here. _Shoot_. Bet I put it somewhere I’d remember when I were cleanin, ‘case I spilled water again or leaned against the counter too hard or summat. Meant to leave music playing but I think my playlist ended and I didn’t notice, lost in thought, I were! Had to rush before you got here!” 

Eli whips her head around and thrusts the box at Yaz, turning to rummage around the kitchen. 

Yaz’s heart aches a little, watching Eli prance around her tiny kitchen. 

“You didn’t have to clean for me—I know you cleaned when you moved in.”

“Found it!” Eli cries, holding her phone aloft from the corner of the kitchen, where she has a small charger-speaker like the one she leaves in Yaz’s room that Sonya had bought her for her birthday. 

(“I _swear_ , if she loses the blasted thing one more time and you turn on _find my mobile_ before eight on a _weekend_ , I _will_ tape it to her hand.”)

“S’no trouble. Wanted to. Kitchen needed a good scrub-down anyway. Planning to keep the kitchen clean, by the way, so you needn’t worry—you’ll be able to cook and eat here any time. Got all new cutting boards ‘n everything! My old ones were in a sorry state, and I needed a new pan, and new spatulas ‘cos the roommates swore the old ones were theirs even though I _totally_ bought the old set, but it don’t matter in the end, does it? I got that metal colander I were eyeing… no toaster for a bit though, but the oven here works! I think. I’m pretty sure. Like 80 percent-90 percent pos’ on that one. Forgot to check before signing the lease, but at least there’s good water pressure. We can test it out later! The oven, not the shower. Although we can check out the shower, too. But I meant the oven. Oh. _Shoot_. Forgot to clean it. Don’t use the oven yet, Yaz.”

Yaz’s eyes prickle as she takes a few steps back to set the doughnuts on the ledge by the front door. 

It’s been a little under a year since they started dating, and a few months of things being, well, _serious_. Yaz isn’t used to someone caring for her—not like _this_ —and Eli’s nonchalance still manages to wind Yaz like a bat to the ribs.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Yaz mumbles. 

It’s embarrassing, coeliac—the judgment from waiters, the thoughtless comments from her coworkers, scouring ingredient labels with a magnifying glass, finding substitutes for her favourite recipes and getting sick at the _worst_ times—and bringing a partner into it was… overwhelming, at first. Eli handled it with the same exuberance she handles everything, but still. The hassle Eli will need to go through to keep her kitchen clean for Yaz is enormous. It’s a sacrifice, and the only reward is that Yaz will be able to safely cook and eat at her flat. Which means _Yaz_ is worth it, for Eli.

“I wanted to,” Eli says earnestly, her grin wide and bright like moonlight. 

Eli taps out her message before sliding her phone into the pocket of her joggers. Mobile secure, Eli pulls Yaz into a hug. 

It took them months to figure out the lingua franca of touch; Eli was skin-hungry to the point of obsession, and Yaz was smothered by almost everything, caught in a dialectic of wanting and the fear of want. 

But, like their conversations about recapping the toothpaste and “home now!” texts and what’s okay to share with Yaz’s parents, they worked at it, and now Yaz quite likes her girlfriend’s deep hello-hugs and the pleading goodbye kiss that turns into five and the arm around her shoulder when they watch movies and the solid knee between her thighs when she—

“Hi,” mumbles Eli into Yaz’s neck. Her breath is warm and ticklish. “Missed you this week.”

She confesses it as though it’s a secret. Yaz imagines she’s the only one who hears Eli’s voice—normally so gregarious, breakneck and _brilliant_ —go whisper-soft. She’s pure electricity, and Yaz is a grounding wire; she only seems to touch the floor when Yaz reminds her to plant her feet. 

And her buoyancy forces Yaz to lift her own off the ground and get out of her head, too.

“Missed you, too. Glad exams are over?” Yaz inhales and gets a noseful of hair for her trouble. Eli smells like scrubbing powder and her conditioner—something herby that Yaz can’t quite identify. 

“ _So_ glad. Submitted my grades at half noon, then passed out whilst eating an aero bar. Woke up with chocolate all over my face. Were a mint one, too. Lost all the bubbles. The _betrayal_. Fear I’ll never recover.” 

Yaz snorts into the crook of Eli’s neck, and feels the shudder travel down the length of her spine. Her shirt might have been navy once, but it’s faded to a pale blue, the seams splitting like an unfurling flower. It’s three-quarters of the way to being a cleaning rag rather than a cleaning shirt, but Eli loves it, so Yaz bites her tongue. She sounds too much like her mum already. 

“And you?” Eli’s voice is sleepy. Yaz will be surprised if she makes it through dinner. “Meet your deadlines?”

“Mm-hmm,” Yaz mumbles, giving Eli a squeeze before pulling away. “Might edit a bit later, but nothing immediate. Sunder likes your idea about interviewing that runner with biomechanical knees.”

“I made those knees.”

“You and loads of other people.”

“You should interview me instead.”

“I’ll bring it up with my boss.”

“ _Good_. Betcha I’m loads more fun to interview than a stupid _runner_ , since I made those knees. With my daft colleagues, I s’pose, but I made the best parts.”

“But she uses them to win marathons.”

“So?”

Yaz rolls her eyes. Grinning, Eli presses a quick kiss to Yaz’s lips, thinks about it, and gives her another one. 

“What are we making?” Yaz asks, tugging Eli close by the band of her sweats. Eli looks sheepish. 

“Okay, _so_ , here’s the thing.” She pauses for a breath, and Yaz braces herself. “It’s tradition to eat fried foods, and there are loads of ‘em—bimuelo, sufganiyot, the little cheese things with the sauce—but they’re all dessert-y, and I grew up on latkes, which are potato pancakes, which are fine, I _guess_ , but I saw this recipe online for zucchini-lentil piyaju and they looked so much better. I was hoping you’d be keen on making them? There’s fresh parsley! You love fresh parsley! And there’s a lemon-yoghurt sauce. Doesn’t that sound so much better than _potatoes_? It’s also quicker and easier and I’ve been soaking the lentils since I got home and we don’t need to grate the potatoes by hand, since I wasn’t sure if your mum’s food processor had the grating attachment and I always catch my knuckles and—”

“Is this because you hate potatoes?” asks Yaz, brushing Eli’s tangles away from her face before she runs out of oxygen. 

“This is because I hate potatoes,” Eli admits. The flush of her cheeks—excitement? embarrassment?—is spreading across her face like watercolour. “I used to like potatoes, and then I—”

“Ate one every day in undergrad.”

“Microwaved.”

“No seasonings.”

“Just a potato.”

"I was so foolish, and bad at being on my own," Eli sighs. Her face is hot, where Yaz is brushing her hair behind her ears. 

“Well, now you’re just bad at being on your own,” Yaz informs her. She’s not wrong—Eli has many skills, but being alone for long is not one of them. 

Yaz isn’t sure how she managed, but she knows the answer: poorly. 

They both have reservations about Eli all alone in her little flat, away from the constant excitement of the flat she’d been sharing with Jack and Martha for ages. But her own flat means privacy, agency, and independence—all important steps, even if the _being alone_ part is a bit intimidating. 

“Now I can be your fool.” Eli’s eyes shine like precious gems, nebulae of browns, greens, and greys, and endlessly adoring. 

Yaz laughs and slides her hands down to Eli’s shoulders, pushing at them gently. “The longer you tell me about how you ate a potato every day for four years, smart stuff, the longer it is ‘til we eat. What d’ya want me to do?”

“Um.” Eli scrambles for her phone. Yaz catches a glimpse of her wallpaper: the two of them at Eli’s youngest brother’s wedding, wearing the _worst_ shade of green his wife had insisted upon. But they look happy, and it was Yaz’s (successful) introduction to Eli’s family last summer. Eli opens her browser and hands the recipe to Yaz. “Don’t it look so good? Look at the crisp!”

“You were determined to make these, weren’t ya?”

Eli scrunches her nose. “Maybe.”

Yaz scrolls through the recipe. “Oh, they’re Bengali.”

“Mm-hmm!”

“Did’ya cut the courgettes and onion yet?”

“No, you’re more patient at that sort of thing n’me. I’ll get distracted and they’ll be different sizes and then they’ll cook weird. Figured I’d let you sort it. I want to rip the parsley.”

Yaz can’t argue with her logic. Her girlfriend is terrifyingly confident—and utterly incompetent—with knives. 

They settle into a comfortable working rhythm in a kitchen so small they can barely pass each other without brushing shoulders and hips. Yaz trusts Eli with salting the courgette until she notices her eating them raw, then sends her to fix the yoghurt sauce whilst she sets the vegetables in a colander with a bowl underneath. 

“You need a haircut,” Yaz blurts out, as Eli pauses to push it out of her face again. It’s too short to tie back properly, and just long enough to get in her way. “Oh, _no_. I sound like Mum.”

Eli’s grin is cheeky and Yaz wants to wrestle it off her face. “I like it.”

Yaz shudders. “Weirdo.”

“Well, now ya sound like Sonya. You’ve gotta pick one or I’ll get confused.”

“Absolutely not. I’d like to be myself, and have my own identity, _thank_ you.”

“I like that too,” Eli says, coming around the counter to wrap her arms around Yaz’s midsection. Her palms are warm and solid as they press against the plane of Yaz’s stomach, but her nose is cold against Yaz’s neck. “Between you, your mum, and your sister, you’re my favourite.”

Yaz rolls her eyes. “Well, I’d _hope_ so.”

“Nani is a close second. Depends on the day, and how much she feeds me.”

“Shut up.” Yaz tries to shake her off, but Eli just rocks with her. 

“Never. Physically impossible. Too many thoughts. Gotta share ‘em. Each one more brilliant than the last. For instance. You look nice tonight and I missed you and you _are_ my favourite and—”

“What would you have done if I didn’t want the piyaju?” Yaz interrupts her rambling. 

“I have some potatoes,” Eli admits with a slump of her shoulders. “I’d’ve made latkes for you, but since we’re not goin' to use them...”

“I’ll bring ‘em to Dad. Get the felonious spuds out of your flat.”

“Good.” Eli ducks around to give Yaz a quick kiss that tastes like the parsley she keeps eating raw. “Thank you.”

“You know he’s just gonna want you to come over and cook the latkes with him?” Yaz mentions idly, tapping turmeric and chile powder into the food processor. 

“He’s a good cook, he can make ‘em himself,” Eli grumps, leaning up against the counter as Yaz snaps the lid onto the processor. Yaz blends the lentils, turns off the processor, and scrapes down the sides of the bowl. 

“He’s _not_ a good cook,” argues Yaz, pointing at Eli’s largest mixing bowl. She gestures again and, after a moment, it’s handed to her. “You’re just a suck-up. Plus, he’ll just want to do it with you, since you’re the only one who’ll cook with him.” 

Eli shakes her towel of parsley into the bowl and looks up at Yaz. Her expression shifts from chipper to serious; the crease between her eyebrows and around her eyes deepening. “Your family likes me, yeah?”

“Yes,” Yaz reassures her. “They do.”

Yaz comes around to press against her from behind, moulding her hips against Eli’s and pressing a kiss between her scapulae. She turns her head to rest her back, wrapping her arms around waist. 

Eli wasn’t the first girl Yaz had introduced to her family, but she can be… an acquired taste. One, to her surprise, her family took to immediately. 

(“She’s the first one who does dishes.”

“You smile more now.”

“She’s down for _anything_.”

“She asks questions.”

“She’s got ambition, but she’s not stuck up.”

“She’s _so_ much better than the last one.”

“She’s a right laugh.”

“She takes care of you, beti. She supports you. None of the others did.”)

“I really like them, too,” Eli says, leaning back into Yaz’s embrace. “You’ve a proper family, y’know? They’ve been so good to me, and they don’t have to be.”

“You’re quite lovable,” Yaz reminds her. She noses at Eli’s hair until she finds her earlobe, pulling it between her teeth. Eli shivers. “My parents already call you Doctor Eli, y’know. Brag about you to their friends.”

“ _No_ ,” Eli moans. Yaz can’t tell if it’s in reaction to her words or the tugging on her ear. “No, not ‘til I ace my dissertation, and that diploma is in my hands. Y’know it’s not even a real diploma? It comes to me later, but symbolically it’s important to—I need to update my address in the portal, I should— _oh,_ that’s a very nice sensation, that is.”

“Sometimes they call you Doctor _Ellie_ ,” Yaz continues, sucking harder on her earlobe. Eli cries out, squirming against Yaz’s vice-like grip. 

“That’s _horrible_ ,” Eli cries. She’s practically in tears. 

“Nani says you’ll make a good wife when you can make the gajar ka halwa without a recipe,” Yaz whispers, licking a stripe behind her ear. 

Realizing what she’d said, Yaz cringes. Oh, why had she blurted _that_ out?

Her heart is thrumming through her ribcage. That’s—her family has been dropping the most unsubtle of hints, but she and Eli haven’t—oh, no, that’s the _worst_ way to bring it up—

Luckily, Eli is more concerned with her honour than her future. 

“I can!” She protests, pulling away and turning to face Yaz. Her face is crimson. “I made it with her for Eid 1, and by myself at Eid 2! I grated _so_ many carrots!”

“They have proper names, you know,” Yaz deadpans. She’s shaking a bit. “Eid al-Adha and Eid al-Fitr.”

“I know.” 

Eli scuffs her socked foot against the linoleum, her grin sheepish. 

“And you nearly let it burn the second time because you left the kitchen to go play video games with my cousin.”

“Yeah, but he challenged me to—”

“And you didn’t even _win_.”

Yaz’s heart is still pounding. She grabs Eli’s discarded towel and wrings it out over the sink, hoping it hides her trembling hands. 

“He were _unfairly_ good at Smash,” Eli protests, “with his tiny and quick hands. _He_ doesn’t have carpal tunnel from years of constant and repetitive computer work, because _he’s_ ten and not an engineer. Just wait. He too will grow old and decrepit, and a young star with nerves not yet compressed will rise to challenge him.”

Yaz snorts and reaches around Eli to take the bowl. “Think the ghee’s hot yet?”

She didn’t even notice, _thankfully_. 

Eli pads over to check the hob. She blanches. “Forgot to turn the stove on again.”

“Okay, _professor_.” Yaz rolls her eyes. “The semester’s over, you can stop being so absent-minded.” 

“It’s exams!” Eli protests. “I’m but a humble grad student. Be glad I knew how to put my trousers on.”

She looks down as if realizing for the first time she’s even wearing clothes. “Have I been wearing these the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, shoot! I meant to change into something cuter. These are my cleanin’ clothes!”

Eli bounces around Yaz, hurdling over the sofa and into her bedroom. With a laugh and a fond eyeroll, Yaz turns on the hob and sets to frying their fritters. 

* * *

“I like this,” says Yaz, gesturing to the nine-pronged candelabra on the windowsill in front of her. It’s tarnished gold, flared at the base and ends, ancient and sturdy as her grandmother’s hands. “It’s lovely.” 

Yaz is sleepy and full, and would like very much to curl up on Eli’s sofa for a quick kip, if she’s being honest. But lighting candles together is important to Eli, so Yaz fights the urge. Instead, she watches her girlfriend sort through a collection of thin taper candles, her clever tongue curling around her top lip as she picks the colours she wants. 

“‘Ta,” Eli chirps. Each candle is roughly the size of a pen and come in colours ranging from neon pink to sparkly aquamarine. “It’s a menorah. Nice one, too. The one we had growin’ up were proper fancy, but the place you stick the candles in were really close together. Always burnt my fingers. This one’s ace. Think it might be an antique, actually.”

Eli’s profile is illuminated by the city lights outside her third storey window. The artificial blues and silvers cast an eerie, almost ghostly glow against her profile. She’s changed into a jumper with rainbow stripes across the chest—she likes this style so much she owns one in every colour. 

Eli moves with a messy unselfconsciousness, all dishevelled with her ruffled hair and pink, pink cheeks, her movements uncharacteristically delicate as she sorts her candles. It makes Yaz’s heart ache. 

It’s just the two of them, in this moment—the two of them, their full bellies, and the candles, in Eli’s lovely little flat, and the warm affection that permeates around it like firelight. 

Satisfied with her setup, Eli turns to grin playfully at Yaz. There are five candles in their slots, the one in the centre higher than the rest. Eli grabs a long-necked lighter and sets to melting the wax at the base of each taper, before gingerly pressing it back into its spot.

“So it won’t topple over,” she explains. “Hanukkah candles can be all wobbly. Quite the firehazard, they are.”

“How’d you get it?” asks Yaz, moving closer to rest her chin against the meat of Eli’s shoulder. “The menorah? Haven’t seen it before, and I thought I unpacked all your breakables.”

Eli’s laugh is a bit self-conscious, resonant through her trapezius. “I asked the rabbi’s dad if there would be cheap menorahs at the Hanukkah sale. He asked why, and I told him I don’t have one but that with the end of the semester and the move that things were tight, financially... He got all huffy—y’know how he gets—and he stormed off. Came back a few minutes later with this one. Thrust it at me ‘n said it were just lying in a box in the library collectin’ dust, so I could use it s’long as I wanted. Weren’t that kind of him?” 

Yaz snorts. She remembers, back in the spring when things with Eli were still so new and somewhat awkward, how Eli had invited her to her synagogue’s Passover seder. Yaz had met the gregarious and energetic rabbi, Bill, who seemed too young to have a job so important. Her father, John Smith, was grumpy, opinionated, and very Scottish in the most intimidating of ways. From under the crossest pair of eyebrows Yaz had ever seen, he had attacked Yaz with questions, and then had yelled at the kitchen staff (and his daughter, in front of _everyone_ ) for not being clearer about which food had gluten and which had alcohol. 

Then he’d taken Yaz’s hands in his and _promised_ her that things would be more organized next time, and Yaz tried not to run away from the concept of _next time_. 

Now, breathing in the smell of clean laundry and fried food in the crook of her girlfriend’s neck, Yaz doesn’t quite hate the idea of _next time_. 

“Definitely,” Yaz hums, pulling back to stand beside Eli again. “Sounds like summat he’d do.” 

“He asks after you, you know,” Eli confesses. She sets the lighter down and reaches out to brush some hair behind Yaz’s ear. Her fingers are cool; her circulation is so terrible her nails often turn blue, and she uses it as an excuse to sneak her hands into Yaz’s pockets. “Bill too. She wants to have us over for tea soon, by the way.”

It’s Yaz’s turn to get flustered. Yaz presses into Eli’s palm, which is dry and a little chapped from working with her hands and the cool winter air. “I’m glad they approve of me.” 

Eli grins, her nose scrunching. “Me too. They’re family, y’know?”

From evenings spent at Bill’s flat to soup deliveries when Eli gets ill, Yaz knows. Eli’s family are the people she surrounds herself with—the ones she chooses to let love her. The ones who choose to stick around. 

“What now?” Yaz asks, hitching her chin towards the menorah. “Reckon there’s more to this than lighting the bases, yeah?”

“We light the candles, starting the newest one, since it’s the fourth night,” Eli indicates the second candle in the line, “to the oldest. This tall one doesn’t count. It’s just the helper, since it lights the other candles. Then we say the blessings.”

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Yaz says, grabbing the firestarter and handing it to Eli. “Care for a light?”

Eli snorts. She ignores Yaz’s offering and instead holds the candle out for Yaz to ignite. Yaz clicks the lighter on, and after a moment, the wick catches. 

“Put your hand on mine? I want to light the candles with you.” Eli’s expression is earnest and open, her grin crinkling the fine lines at the edges of her eyes. A single drop of sunshine-yellow wax falls and splatters onto the base of the menorah below. 

Yaz slides her hand over Eli’s, cradling it in her palm. Eli’s hand is strong and wiry. Her tendons shift as she guides their hands candle-by-candle. The flame of the helper candle kisses the unlit wicks, passing along its gentle light. 

The room falls silent; the space shrinks so all that exists are Yaz and Eli, enveloped by the light of five golden, flickering flames, and the soft, indigo darkness. Yaz stares into the fire, lets her vision go fuzzy, and breathes deep enough that the constant tension in her chest eases. _All that exists is what is here, and what is here is really, really nice._

They are kindling flames, suspended in a luminous present between past and future.

How can something so simple be so intimate? 

Eli’s voice is breathy as she half-sings the blessings in a melody that sounds both ancient and familiar, and Yaz lets the sound soak into her bones. 

“Done,” Eli says, pressing a cold-nosed kiss to Yaz’s cheek. “Now we can cuddle. I want to hear about your day.”

“What’s the story?” Yaz blurts out. “Of—of the holiday. Of all this.”

She gestures to the candles and then to the now-clean kitchen. 

Eli pulls back and blinks rapidly at her, with the same panicked, deer-in-headlights expression as when Yaz asks her to explain the particulars of her research or the logic behind thoughts that jump as fast as oil in a hot pan. 

“Uh,” Eli gulps. “Eh, well, y’see, it happened so long ago, that—there’s something with an empire, but I don’t remember which one, and the… Second Temple? And oil, like you know how there’s s’posed to be an eternal light—”

“So it’s based on a true story?” asks Yaz. Her father had been trying to explain Hanukkah to her, as he handed her the doughnuts, but she’d brushed him off— _Eli’s_ actually _Jewish, Eli will know, can’t trust what you read online._

Clearly not. 

“Sort of? There was a revolt and we know _that_ happened, but the story’s become mythologized and the concept of _miracles_ in the temple is—”

“You don’t know, do ya?”

“I _used_ to!” Eli says, flinging her arm carelessly away from her chest. The candles sputter. 

“Don’t _gesticulate_ ,” Yaz admonishes, reaching for Eli’s hand. “There’s _fire_!”

“I’ll look it up,” Eli mutters, pulling her phone from the back pocket of her trousers. “We’ll sort it out.”

“No, that’s okay, don’t look it up!” Yaz is quick to reassure her. “I don’t need a whole explanation. Just stay here and look at the candles with me, Eli, they’re lovely.” 

Yaz tries to get lost in the magic of the candles again, but the moment is gone; Eli, who’d been practically sedate before, is now thrumming with energy, wound tight like a spring. 

“Do you really want to look it up?” sighs Yaz. 

“ _Yeah_.” Eli winces. “Come sit on the couch with me? I’ll read you the highlights. Now I’ve got to know. My Hebrew school teacher will be so disappointed in me… good ‘ol Ms Lambert, wonder what she’s doing now… I used to drive her batty, I did. Asked so many questions.”

“Can’t imagine that,” Yaz laughs, pushing Eli towards her sofa. “Bet you were proper cute as a child, though.”

“Yeah,” Eli says proudly as she falls back on the pillows. She wiggles and sprawls, shifting around so Yaz has room to settle between her legs. “I were.” 

Yaz curls against her girlfriend, resting her head against Eli’s chest. Eli pulls out her phone and begins to research, tapping rapidly through articles. She mutters under her breath and occasionally says something out loud, and Yaz half-listens to her explanation, which begins to unravel like a piece of twine the more passionate Eli gets. 

Yaz sends a picture of their dinner to her dad and debates posting it to Instagram, but when her phone slides from her hand she doesn’t bother to pick it up. 

“So _then_ the Seleucid Empire, well, Antiochus IV specifically—”

“Did’ya really not know why you celebrate this holiday?” Yaz interrupts her, mumbling into Eli’s clavicle. 

“ _Look_ ,” Eli huffs, flinging her hand out and knocking over a mercifully empty mug. It lands on her rug with a small _thud_. “There are loads of Jewish holidays. At _least_ twenty-three, not countin’ the weekly one. I can’t be expected to remember the minutiae of _why_ we celebrate and _how_ to celebrate _all_ of ‘em, there’s _so many_. There’s a spreadsheet, actually—”

“I’ve seen the spreadsheet, babe.” Yaz grabs her flyaway hand and interlaces their fingers together. 

“A whole category for trees,” Eli continues, although her usual energy has faded to a half-asleep mumble as Yaz runs her thumb over her knuckles. “I love trees, me. There should be more tree-based holidays, in my opinion.”

“I agree,” Yaz says. “Let’s go to the gardens once they open back up.” 

“Ooh. Brilliant idea. I like that. I like that a lot.” 

Eli presses a kiss to the crown of Yaz’s head that sends electric tingles down her spine. 

Yaz closes her eyes, content to bask in the warmth of her girlfriend under her, and the rhythm of her pulse, rapid even at rest, and the cosiness of the flat, before she remembers—

Yaz sits up, taking care not to elbow Eli in the chest, so she can slap her on the thigh. “Oh!” 

“Oh!” Eli replies, jolting up and slapping Yaz’s thigh in return. She rubs her eyes sleepily, then ruffles her hair. It sticks out at odd angles, making her look younger than her thirty-two years.

“Yes, oh!” Yaz slaps Eli again, harder this time. “I heard back from the mentorship programme earlier today!”

“ _Oh_!” Eli sits up fully, forcing Yaz to scramble backwards before she’s knocked off the sofa. “Did you get it?”

“I did,” Yaz says. She fails to fight her smile. “And you’ll never guess who I’m assigned to.”

“No, probably not—tell me!” 

“Sarah Jane Smith,” Yaz says. Her heart starts pounding—it feels ridiculous to say it out loud, the opportunity to work under _Sarah Jane Smith_ , but she’s going to. 

“Brilliant!” Eli beams, her smile bright enough to light up the living room, before her face crunches. “Who is she? Should I know her?”

“Sarah Jane Smith _,_ Eli! One of the best investigative journalists of the past decade!”

So maybe she’s a more industry-specific heroine. 

“Oh, that’s _ace_ ,” Eli breathes, leaning forward to brush her lips against Yaz’s. “I’m thrilled for you—beyond thrilled. How are we feeling?” 

“I’m proper chuffed,” Yaz admits. “I feel like I’m finally moving ahead, y’know? Can cover something besides restaurant openings and festival write-ups. Thank you for encouraging me to apply. I don’t think I’d’ve had the courage otherwise.”

Eli brushes her hand against her shoulder. “You wrote the essay. All I did was proofread it.”

That isn’t true. As soon as Eli had found out about the mentorship programme, she’d read every page on the website, had created a spreadsheet to keep track of Yaz’s application, and had promised Yaz every time she asked that she’d still be proud of her even if she was rejected. Yaz had known about it for years and had never bothered to apply—thought it was too prestigious, thought herself underqualified, and didn’t want to suffer the humiliation of rejection. 

Eli told her she was _growing_ , which is why the programme existed, and she wouldn’t grow if she didn’t put herself out there. 

And, well. 

Eli was right. 

Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Probably wouldn’t be the last. 

“When do you start?” 

“Sometime late January,” replies Yaz, playing with the material of Eli’s trousers. If it was once corduroy, the ridges have faded to nonexistence. A hand-me-down from a brother, or charity shop find? “I don’t like us both being so busy next year.” 

“But we’ll be busy at the same time,” Eli offers helpfully. “I don’t like it either. But it isn’t forever. Isn’t it wild? My doctorate will be over next semester, and then I can get a job, and we can—what do you want to do for your birthday?” 

Something that looks almost like fear flashes in Eli’s wide, wide eyes. 

“My birthday?” 

“It’s soon, no?” 

“S’pose it is,” Yaz confirms. “Twenty-nine isn’t exactly a big birthday. I know dad’s been working on a gluten-free black forest gateau, since that’s traditional in our family, and otherwise… Reckon I’ll be working?” 

Eli’s face falls. “You weren’t gonna take the day off?” 

“Saw no reason to. Why?” 

Yaz leans forward to rest her chin against Eli’s knee. It’s rather bony, and she has to crane her neck to look up at her. 

“I want to spend time with you,” says Eli, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. “If you take the day off, we can drive out to the Peak District and climb up Mam Tor. Bet it looks really different in the winter. I were hopin’ to spend time alone with you, since it’s your birthday ‘n all, if you wanted to spend the day with me. Plus I want a new lock screen. But I respect you wanting to work, too. We can make the trip another day, or not at all, or do something else, or—” 

_Oh_. 

Right. 

Makes sense, that her girlfriend would want to spend time with her on her birthday. 

“I’d like that,” Yaz admits, leaning forward to press a kiss to Eli’s lips. They’re soft and a little chapped from the way Eli chews on them when she’s anxious.

“Brilliant,” Eli breathes, bringing up a hand to tangle in the baby hairs at the base of Yaz’s skull. She curls them carefully, and grins down at her. “But we’ll be home in time for dinner with your family, because your dad already told me the menu, and I really don’t want to miss it.” 

“Oh _no,_ what’s he making?” Yaz winces, and fights a smile when Eli kisses her nose.

“Takeaway from your favourite restaurant.” 

Yaz laughs and kisses Eli again, slow and sweet and tender, the kind of kiss that says _thank you for not judging my family_ and _I really,_ really _like you_ and _I’m excited to travel with you_ because sometimes the words are difficult to say out loud. 

“I think Ryan and Graham and Martha are coming to dinner as well,” Eli adds, slipping her hand over the plane of Yaz’s back and scratching along her spine how she likes. Yaz shudders and melts against her. “Jack is a maybe and Grace has to work. It’ll be a nice party.” 

“Oh,” Yaz murmurs as Eli presses against a particularly tense spot on her back. “Didn’t realize this were turning into a whole thing.” 

Yaz was a lonely child, and Eli was as well—it was something they bonded over, initially. As an adult, Yaz wasn’t _lonely_ , but she is definitely not a social creature the way Eli was. 

And she is certainly _not_ a birthday party type. 

“S’not a whole thing.” Yaz can hear the pout in Eli’s voice. “Just some mates comin’ over. It’s been a while since we saw everyone. And we all want to celebrate with you.” 

_We want to celebrate you_. So different than last year, or the year before that. 

“Sounds nice,” Yaz admits.

They cuddle in silence for a while, before Eli taps Yaz on the shoulder. 

“The last candle is going out, look Yaz.” 

The menorah is empty now, like a tree without leaves, save for one single, flickering flame. As Yaz and Eli watch, it extinguishes, and the smoke curls gently upward and towards the fogged-up glass. 

Eli sighs. “Always like catching the last one. So peaceful. The ritual is over, but there’s another night. They get more beautiful with each night, ‘till it’s all filled up, and then it’s bittersweet ‘cos it’s over ‘til next year.”

“Is it always this calm?” Yaz blurts out. She turns her head to stare up at Eli, who’s gazing down on her with an expression so tender it leaves Yaz feeling stripped bare. 

“No,” Eli admits. “But it was tonight, lighting them with you. Thank you for coming.” 

“Thank you for inviting me,” Yaz replies. She stifles a laugh at their sudden formality.

“No, really,” Eli continues. She worms a chilly finger under the band of Yaz’s dungarees and traces a spiral pattern against her hip. “Means a lot to be dating someone I can share things with—things I find important—I know it’s not the same for us but I hope—it’s still meaningful in some way, and you don’t think it’s silly—I mean, sometimes _I_ think it’s silly, but—I don’t know what I’m trying to say…”

Yaz pushes up and glances at Eli’s worried face. The divot between her eyebrows appears as she frets, the furrow that sets a harsh shadow across her face in the low light. 

“I like it,” Yaz reassures her. “The candles make everything peaceful and soft, and it kept me… present. I like it.”

“Okay,” Eli breathes. She relaxes under Yaz, supine and supple. “Good.”

“Good.” 

Eli stares out at the menorah, her eyes tracing over its branches and curves. And Yaz stares at Eli, tracing the curves of her cheeks and the arch of her brow. Yaz fights the urge to press against her frown line, to try to smooth out the crease that appears when she’s so deep in thought it’s like she’s on another planet. Best to let her keep spinning—she’ll share, eventually, if Yaz is patient. 

“It’s about creating spaces,” Eli bursts out, voice thick. “Spaces that are different from our normal lives. Stuff like this, it forces me to slow down. Calms the buzzin’ in my brain. Especially when I’m sharin’ it with loved ones, ‘cos I’ve had so many holidays alone. I’ve always been… different. I think—I know—a lot of it was just me, being me. Except it’s not _always_ me, at least, I don’t think it is. Sometimes it feels larger.”

Eli slides her foot under the band of Yaz’s right sock, and strokes along her ankle, sending goosebumps up the entire length of Yaz’s leg. 

“Sometimes I get sad,” Eli admits, her voice distant as the stars. “But I don’t think it’s _my_ sadness; it’s bigger than me, and I’m just a part of it. When my parents split, I felt alone for a long time. No one to do things with, everything all political, why bother keeping up traditions when it’s all ruined, anyway? Felt like my head weren’t attached to my body. Like my feet weren’t on the ground. Then I met Bill, and it’s like I came home. Like I were a tree, and I grew roots. Found a place to put my sadness. Found a place I weren’t so… different. Where the world weren’t too loud or too quiet. I think that’s diaspora. Finding pockets where you’re at home, in a world that never feels quite right.”

“I get it,” Yaz mumbles. She traces a pattern along the stripes of Eli’s jumper, feels the way mustard and burnt orange and forest green give way under her fingers. “Nani doesn’t talk about anything before she arrived in Sheffield. So the gaps between her stories are… there’s just darkness, ‘cos she won’t share, even though it’s our history too.” 

Yaz will always, _always_ be proud of her family; of being Punjabi; of being Muslim. But pride is different than knowledge. Yaz has so many questions she feels like she’s going to explode, sometimes. Questions Umbreen still won’t answer.

Yaz just wants to know more about where she’s come from. 

“I’m sorry,” Eli murmurs.

Yaz shrugs. “S’okay.”

Eli’s still tracing idle patterns on Yaz’s hip, and it’s beginning to tickle. 

“I’m glad we have each other,” Yaz says. “I mean. You’re all right, I s’pose.”

Eli’s laugh pulls from deep in her belly. “I s’pose you’re all right too, Yasmin Khan.” 

“I’d better be more than all right,” Yaz teases, leaning up to nip a particularly sensitive spot under Eli’s jaw. Eli shudders, her hands fisting the back of Yaz’s shirt.

“You know…” Eli says casually. “I have extra candles. Loads of ‘em. Body safe, they are. Made of soy. Very low meltin’ point, and they come in all sorts of colours—” 

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Yaz cries, reaching over to grab a pillow and half-smother her girlfriend. 

Not that she won’t take her up on her offer, obviously, but letting an opportunity to tease Eli like this go by?

Yaz wouldn’t dream of it.

**Author's Note:**

> hi i live for reviews also you can find me on tumblr @clowncartardis and if you’re over the age of 21 and want to hang out on a pro-thasmin, pro-thoschei, kink-positive discord feel free to join us on tsuranga. i think we’re pretty neat! 
> 
> https://discord.gg/wKpbKQ5C5f
> 
> happy hanukkah! xoxo


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